It is not that the meaning cannot be explained. But there are certain meanings that are lost forever the moment they are explained in words.

What would tomorrow bring? I wondered. Both hands on the wheel, I closed my eyes. I didn’t feel like I was in my own body; my body was just a lonely, temporary container I happened to be borrowing. What would become of me tomorrow I did not know.

Probably." "Again with the probablys." "A world full of probablys," she said.

I didn't have much to say to anybody but kept to myself and my books. With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw it's fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy.

Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory.

Inside that darkness, i saw rain falling on the sea. Rain softly falling on a vast sea, with no one there to see it. The rain strikes the surface of the sea, yet even the fish don't know it is raining.

Writers have to keep on writing if they want to mature, like caterpillars endlessly chewing on leaves.